Chapter Text
The horrible, mind-numbing noise was beginning to fade and his brain was beginning to function once more. He blinked several times trying to piece together an image of his surroundings.
“Uncle John?” A voice said and he turned to try and see where it came from, the movement causing several daggers to pierce his brain simultaneously.
He cried out, doubling over in pain.
“Uncle John?” The voice said again, and someone was touching him gently on the shoulder. “Are ye alright? Can ye hear me?”
The voice was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Uncle John. Who would be calling him that? The voice certainly didn’t belong to any of his brother’s children. It had a Scottish accent.
He blinked again, slowly, trying to fix his gaze on the first thing he saw, which happened to be a young man, fair haired and with a kind face. A face he knew, only it was wrong somehow.
“Who are you?” He asked, his own voice sounding muffled in his ears.
The young man smiled and patted his shoulder affectionately, concern evident in his plain features.
“I’m Ian of course, Ian Murray. D’ye know your own name?”
Ian Murray? He thought. Yes, he did know who Ian Murray was, but the face before him couldn’t possibly be Ian’s. He resembled the lad, true, but Ian was a mohawk, the distinctive line of tattoos across his face was conspicuously absent. And why on earth would Ian Murray call him Uncle?
It was all very odd.
“Can ye stand, Uncle John? Or shall I go fetch the wagon?”
He tested his head again and was relieved to find that the pain was fading with each passing minute.
“Where are we?” He asked, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt as he tried to stand.
“Well, we’re half a day’s ride from home, less if we push the horses.”
“Home?” He asked. Where was home, he wondered, he couldn't really remember. Virginia, he thought.
“Aye, back to The Ridge.” Ian looked at him skeptically, “Or should we stop for the night? I’d as soon see ye home safe with Uncle Jamie. He’ll ken what to do about your head, sure enough.”
Jamie.
“Home? With Jamie?” He was beginning to think he had hit his head harder than he realized. None of this was making any sense.
“Aye?” Ian said, as though it were obvious. “Why don’t you stay here, I’ll fetch the wagon and you can…rest a while. Perhaps ye’ll feel better if ye close your eyes.”
With that Ian was off, trotting into the trees.
John Grey looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time since he’d awakened. He was in a small clearing, shaded by tall trees, their golden leaves lit with the midday sun. To his left the ground sloped down a small hill, ending at a stream.
To his right stood a circle of tall standing stones, their long shadows casting eerie patterns on the ground beside him.
He’d fought for consciousness for what felt like an eternity. When at last he’d managed to stay awake longer than a few minutes at a time his head felt as though it would split, jostled to and fro in the wagon.
The young man who claimed to be Ian Murray was kind and did his best to help Grey stay comfortable during the journey, but his very existence was confounding to John. As he’d begun to recover he became more and more certain that this was by no means the Ian Murry he knew. This certainty gave Grey the odd feeling that he was being watched by something just out of sight, and he shuddered.
At last, as the sun disappeared behind the trees and the air grew cold, they crested a ridge coming into sight of a small cabin. It, too, was familiar to him and he realized with a start that it was James Fraser’s cabin, though he did not live there anymore having built for himself a fine and significantly larger house some years ago.
They trundled into the yard and Ian jumped down calling out to the house, announcing their arrival. The door opened and, as if in a strange and foggy daydream, Jamie Fraser stepped out, grinning from ear to ear.
“Fàilte dhachaigh!” Jamie cried, taking the steps two at a time and striding toward them arms out. “We’ve missed ye both.”
His smile faded as he looked from Ian to Grey, sensing that something was not right.
“Something happened to him, Uncle Jamie. He's maybe hit his head.” Grey heard Ian say, and then the lad lowered his voice even further. “He’s not himself.”
“Halò mo ghràdh,” Jamie said as if expecting Grey to somehow understand Gaelic.
“Alright, John?” Jamie asked, frowning as he tugged at Grey’s arm. The touch was easy and familiar and strange all the same.
“I’m…not sure,” Grey said truthfully. “Hello, Jamie. It’s good to see you.”
He managed to step down off the wagon, but his balance hadn’t been the same since the stones and he stumbled forward into Jamie, who caught him easily.
“I’m terribly sorry,” He said, trying to extricate himself from Jamie’s grasp, but the man held him tight.
“Ian,” Jamie began, “Why don’t ye tend to the horses, aye?"
Ian nodded solemnly, glancing back at them as he began to unhitch the beasts.
Jamie guided Grey to the cabin, one arm around his waist, the other grasping his elbow. Once they were inside he helped Grey to sit down in a chair near the hearth, drawing the large coat off of his shoulders before setting to work preparing the kettle.
“Jamie,” Grey began, “What’s going on? Who is that young man claiming to be Ian? And where are Claire, Brianna, and the rest of your family? Come to think of it, why are you in this old cabin to begin with?”
The questions came out in a flood, and while Jamie listened without interrupting, his face grew more and more worried as each word fell from John’s lips. Jamie seemed to consider how to answer, silently contemplating his companion. At last, he came over to Grey, gently checking his head for signs of injury, as if that might somehow explain things.
“Ian thought ye might have hit your head, John,” Jamie said. “I dinna see any injury but I think…I think perhaps you’re confused.”
Grey simply sat, blinking and uncomprehending as Jamie drew a chair beside him, grasping his hands with a gentle familiarity.
"But the lad who brought me here..." Grey protested, mind further tangled by the distraction of Jamie's touch.
“That was Ian, you know him. He’s lived here, with us, since he was a young lad,” Jamie continued, speaking patiently, as if to a child. “Claire…” He paused, the name spoken as if it had been a long time since he’d said it out loud, “Claire’s gone, John. She left before Culloden. And I dinna ken who Brianna is, but the rest of the family, well that’s William. He’s likely out hunting, but he’ll be home in a day or so. He’ll be glad to see ye.”
Grey knew he’d been injured, knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. But he also knew that none of that made any sense at all, even to his befuddled brain.
"Jamie, what do you mean Claire is gone? She’s here, she came back to you years ago. And Brianna is your daughter. You must know who she is.” He leaned forward looking into Jamie’s eyes, as if he might make it all make sense by sheer force of will. “And William? What on earth is William doing here?”
Jamie’s expression made a study of various emotions; confusion, fear, frustration. But they all faded into softness as Jamie leaned forward, reaching out to John and taking his face in hand, caressing his cheek. And then, as if Grey hadn’t already known something was wildly amiss, Jamie kissed him. Jamie kissed him as though he’d done so a thousand times, and planned to do so a thousand more.
“Mo ghràdh,” Jamie said gently, “Why don’t ye lie down? You’ve had a long journey and…rest will do ye good.”
Grey, heart somehow still beating steadily despite what had just happened, decided then that whatever was wrong with his brain, and clearly something was very wrong, he didn’t mind and hoped never to recover. And then he let Jamie Fraser guide him to bed as though that were the right and normal way of things.
He slept, had no choice but to sleep. Only it was fitful, restless with the sound of buzzing, waking with a start several times as though he were falling. When morning came, though, his head felt considerably better, his thoughts clearer. Perhaps it had all been some mad dream and things might make sense today.
He took a moment to look around the small cabin. It was familiar, warm and crowded with far too many things for such a small space; herbs hanging from the ceiling, cooking pots, mismatched furnishings, clothes tossed about. It was a home. Just not his home.
A burst of cold air filled the room as the door opened, Jamie sweeping in hair loose and tousled by the wind, a wide smile upon his flushed cheeks.
“A bheil thu nad dhùisg?” Jamie said, again as if it were his usual custom to speak to John in Gaelic.
Grey sat up, swinging his legs off the bed awkwardly, somewhat ashamed at his own poor manners.
“I’m sorry?” Grey said politely.
“Och, just askin’ were you finally awake,” Jamie said, warmly.
“Ah, yes, I’m afraid I may have slept a good deal longer than necessary. My apologies.”
Jamie laughed, going to the hearth and filling a bowl with what appeared to be porridge and a cup with what might have been tea or coffee, Grey couldn't tell but it smelled wonderful.
“Dinna fash, John,” Jamie said setting the breakfast down on the bedside table and resting a hand on Grey’s shoulder, “I know better than to try and rouse you before the sun is high in the sky.”
This was said with such an easy familiarity it seemed as though Jamie were intimately acquainted with Grey’s sleeping habits. He’d managed to shake off the memory of what must have been a hallucination the night before, of Jamie’s lips meeting his, but this simple statement brought it right straight back again.
“Well,” Grey said, clearing his throat and taking a sip of the coffee, “I am happy to report I am much improved. I believe I should be able to return home at any time now. Naturally, I wouldn’t wish to overstay my welcome.”
Jamie had been occupied with his own bowl of porridge but stopped and turned to Grey, frowning deeply.
“I thought ye were feeling better,” Jamie said.
“I am.” Grey insisted, more confident on the outside than he felt within.
“John, you are home, you live here.”
Ah. Grey thought, apparently his mind was still playing bloody tricks on him in spite of his feeling entirely himself again.
“I see,” Grey said, thinking that perhaps it was best to just go along with things. Whatever the matter, he didn't seem able to fight it anyhow.
They sat in silence for a long while. Grey could sense Jamie’s eyes on him but refused to meet the gaze, eyes piercing and intent as though they might well be seeing into his deepest thoughts, reading his every emotion as clearly as one might read a book. Or a love letter.
“I’ll draw you a bath,” Jamie said at last, startling Grey from his thoughts, “You’ll feel better after a bath.”
Grey began to protest that he wouldn’t dream of putting Jamie out but stopped himself short. Whether real or a figment of some fraught daydream, he'd never successfully argue with Jamie in any case, so why bother?
“That would be lovely," He said, wondering what the bloody hell he'd gotten himself into this time.